Death in the Airport
by SuperMiss
Summary: Shawn, Gus and Lassie end up on the same plane; so do an US Marshall and a convict. This can't end well... Featuring peanuts, mysterious deaths, terrorist threats, handcuffs, wobbly POV changes and funky dialogues, oh my.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Death Is in the Air(port)

Author: nao_asakura, aka SuperMiss

Summary_: Shawn, Gus and Lassie end up on the same plane; so do an US Marshall and a convict. This can't end well... Featuring peanuts, mysterious deaths, terrorist threats, handcuffs, wobbly POV changes and funky dialogues, oh my. _

A/N: _When I first watched season 4, I knew nothing about each episode but the title. And I thought _Death Is in the Air_ was going to take place aboard a plane; I was really thrilled about the idea (even though the whole virus episode was awesome.) There is no link whatsoever with that episode, the idea only came from the title. Blame my imagination._

OoOoO_  
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"Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts while the hostess will show you the emergency exits and..."

All the while the disincarnated voice was resounding through the plane speakers, Shawn had been trying to open a bag of peanuts, which seemed to be giving him a hard time. He was attacking it with his teeth while attempting to speak in the meantime. But Gus didn't even hear him; he was too intent on following the hostess' indications in case of emergency landing and so forth.

"Man, you really should relax," Shawn said. "Here, have a peanut," he added, handing him the freshly opened bag.

But Gus was no longer listening to him, or to the hostess for that matter. He had spotted something way more interesting – and slightly terrifying. However, as Shawn would have said, Gus found every interesting part in live 'slightly terrifying', and – Gus shushed his inner voice, which resembled strangely Shawn's, and shook his friend's arm, his eyes never leaving the tall man approaching their row.

"Shawn, it's—"

"Lassiface!" The psychic had suddenly jumped to his feet, hitting his head on the overhead locker. "Ow, my hair!" came the pained exclamation a second later.

"Spencer!" A bark, and then sputter. Considering that, and the color the Head Detective's face turned into, one could say he wasn't happy to see them here.

The hostess took Lassiter's ticket from his hands while he was trying to utter something – probably mean and vaguely threatening – and ushered him towards his seat. Which happened to be next to Shawn's, who was now grinning like a madman.

"Dude, this flight is gonna be so—"

"Not a word, Spencer... Well, actually, how did the two of you—"

But Shawn was already in full psychic mode. "Why, Lassiface, you don't like this awesome coincidence? It's like the whole universe is trying to tell us something. Oh, Lassie, the spirits, they..."

He raised a hand to place his fingertips on his temple, and he stretched his other arm to touch Lassiter, who slapped his hand away.

OoOoO

"You really won tickets to visit the set of _Leverage_?" Lassiter seemed incredulous.

"Well, it appears so, since I'm currently eating peanuts on a plane," said Shawn with a mouthful and a mischievous smile.

"They seemed legit," Gus added. "Plus there is no way we're going to end up in Mexico _this_ time, which is a good point in my book." Canada was always a possibility, but it seemed less frightening to Gus, so he didn't mention it.

"And what about you, Lassiface?" Shawn asked, joyous.

"Don't call me that," was the flippant answer he got. Then, when Lassiter realized he would not be able to spend the entire flight ignoring the overactive psychic, he consented to answer.

"I'm attending to a conference, nothing of interest for you." Then he went back to sulking; the perspective of having to spend nearly three hours in a flying tin can next to the annoying psychic was pushing him on the verge of a panic attack but he didn't want to show any of it.

"Is it about guns?" Shawn asked, inquisitive as a child who wouldn't get his clue to shut up. "Laser guns?"

"Those don't even exist, Shawn," said Gus, looking through the window.

"They don't exist _yet._"

A sigh from Lassiter, then he developed: "Actually, it's a conference on drugs."

"Oh, right, too bad it's not in Vegas. That could have made a cool remake."

"What are you on about?" Lassiter was pissed off, mostly because he didn't always get Spencer's crazy references.

"That would make me Benicio Del Toro," Gus added, immediately getting the allusion to_ Fear and Loathing_, "and you would be Johnny Depp."

"No way I'm bald!" Shawn cried, horrified.

"That will happen, one day," said Lassiter. "And I hope to be there to see that," he added with a quick smile, while Shawn was looking at his hair in the reflection of Gus' window.

"You—" But they never heard what Lassiter was going to say. The Head Detective had stopped, mouth slightly open, and he was staring at the plane entrance, where an US Marshall was currently standing. Stiff, tall, clad in a perfectly ironed uniform; jaw locked and eyes watching every corner as if he was expecting an attack of some kind. He yanked a smaller man in front of him, a little forcefully, maybe, while the other passengers were all gaping.

The other man was trussed up like a turkey, although he didn't seemed very threatening, in Shawn's opinion. He did look a bit like a turkey, though; small, with pot belly. His face was unshaven and his eyes sunken. He just went along as the Marshall pushed him in his back.

Shawn and Gus were staring, eyes bright with excitement, as if it was Christmas or something. "This flight is going to be awesome," Shawn whispered.

"What do you think the shabby guy did?" Gus wondered aloud.

"You two are idiots," Lassiter concluded. Then he added between his teeth: "I can't believe they let _him_ take his sidearm."

"Lassie is jealous." Shawn nudged Gus in the arm with his elbow, grinning.

"Of course I am. He gets all the glory and admiration from idiots, and all I get is you two, bothering the crap out of me. There's no way this could get worse."

"There could be snakes," Shawn provided helpfully.

"Or Langoliers," Gus added, nodding.

"Oh my God, you two really never stop, do you?" Lassiter sighed, and some part of him was praying for trouble during the flight, just to distract him from his unwanted companions.

OoOoO

"And that's how I ended up divining that it was in fact the sweet old granny who had killed those three men."

"Shawn, quit annoying the lady with your stories." It was mostly the fact that he was left out of them that bothered Gus.

"My _awesome_ stories, you mean," Shawn corrected.

"He means cut the crap, Spencer, we're tired of hearing about your psychic exploits," Lassiter said grumpily. And the plane hadn't even taken off yet.

"Watch your mouth, Lassiface." He blinked playfully to the woman, who was hiding behind a flight prospectus, looking really uneasy. "It's nothing but a true story."

"I was there too," Gus felt the need to add with a wide smile, using his smooth voice.

Across the alley, the small man in cuffs was listening intensely, a frown barring his forehead.

OoOoO

The plane had taken off according the schedule, and all Gus and Shawn had managed to gather was that the Marshall was escorting a convict to Portland. Gus didn't think he looked like a killer or an evil mastermind, but appearances could be deceptive, so he was turning back every five seconds to watch them from between the seats.

"Gus, calm down or you'll end up with a wry neck."

"I can't, I'm making sure no one's trying to kill us."

"You're not very discreet," was Lassiter's sarcastic comment.

"Alright, alright." Shawn stood up, throwing his crumpled peanuts wrapper on his seat. "I'll see if I can gather some psychic vibes about them on my way to the little boys' room."

Then he managed to jump/fall on Lassiter's lap, who uttered indignant protests, and quickly pushed him away, the happy psychic not even bothering to apologize.

When he came back, he started acting all suspicious and wary. He stopped making jokes, and began watching the Marshall from across the plane with a dark eye and a scowl, but he wouldn't say what was wrong.

Lassiter deduced that he was just being annoying and had found a new way to express himself; Gus presumed he had some kind of proof that the convict was indeed an evil mastermind and/or a serial killer.

OoOoO

"Is there a doctor on the plane?" someone yelled from the back.

"At last!" said Shawn, jumping to his feet. "Some action."

"Spencer, where do you think you're going?" growled Lassiter, raising from his seat.

"You're no doctor, Shawn, and someone could be hurt," said Gus, not even bothering to stand up.

"Don't be a rusty teapot, Gus. Besides, I think I know who's in trouble, or worse."

Gus and Lassiter exchanged a silent look before both going after the springy faux psychic.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Death Is in the Air(port)

Author: nao_asakura, aka SuperMiss

OoOoO

A hostess and a steward were standing in the back of the plane, next to the bathroom, beside the short, sorry excuse of a criminal, who was currently lying on the floor, very blue in the face.

"That can't be good," chirped Gus, saying out loud what everybody was obviously thinking.

The moody Marshall was standing behind, by the toilet door, looking very stiff. He had reasons to feel bad, with his perp being shocked with a defibrillator by a terrified looking young steward.

"Man, he's dead," said the young man with a thick Southern accent, putting the defibrillator pallets aside on the floor with shaky hands.

A couple of minutes later, an old doctor with white hair and beard, looking very much like Santa Claus in tweed and a bowtie, according to Shawn anyway, joined the party in the back. The curtain had been drawn, and the passengers carefully misinformed. He had some trouble kneeling down, joked a bit about being old and rusted, but finally confirmed that the perp was dead. "Heart attack," he said, and everyone seemed to buy it – the man was in his late fifties and everything but athletic and healthy looking.

Everyone, that is, but Shawn, who crouched by the body, despite Lassiter's warning: "Back off, Spencer. Put your greasy hands away."

Shawn didn't take the time to argue – his hands weren't greasy anyway, merely salty from eating all those peanuts, but that hardly qualified as— _Wait a minute, what was that?_

Shawn's mind made a full stop and the only thing he could see now was the tiny reddish dot on the dead guy's belly, where his shirt had risen from his pants. Puncture wound.

"Aw!" He jumped to his feet, as if in pain, and swayed a little, clutching his heart.

"Cut the crap, Spencer! We already know he died from a heart attack, no need for your theatrical demonstrations."

"But wait, Lassie, there's more," Shawn sputtered, slightly out of breath, and he carried on moaning, now holding his side.

"Paper cut!" he yelped. "No, wait, bees! I'm sensing bees!"

"You think he could have been killed by bees?" Gus asked, suddenly very insecure, eyeing the ceiling suspiciously.

"Gus, don't be a floppy bread knife, I'm sensing, ow, I'm sensing jabbing, I'm sensing puncture... like a giant bee, right in his side..."

He was indicating his own side, but the old doctor got the clue, and quickly checked the perp's abdomen, revealing several purple marks.

"Well, he was definitively injected with something, but those marks could be consistent with—"

"Mister Stungrass was a diabetic," the Marshall stepped in, his voice trailing. "He had daily injections for that."

"That's it!" Shawn cried. "Someone tampered with the... syringes, or whatever, and killed him."

"What makes you think he was killed?" Gus asked, still on the lookout for bees, one never knew.

"Don't you find it suspicious?"

"Yes, a bit, but that's no reason to start throwing wild accusations and—"

"Oi, Holmes, Watson, will you please stop talking non sense and step out of my crime scene?"

"Crime scene?" Shawn asked, surprised.

"Yours?" the Marshall growled.

"Until we know for sure how that man died, nobody goes near that body. And I'll need to see those drugs you were referring to, Marshall. And yes, I'm in charge here, since you," he went as far as tapping his finger in the Marshall's chest, "failed to keep your convict alive."

"Good talk, Lassie. Now, what are we—"

"Will you get out of here, Spencer, or do I have to throw you out myself?"

Quickly backing away froman irate Lassiter with his palms raised in a placating manner, Shawn came back to the main cabin, followed by Gus. A few passengers raised their head from their newspapers and daiquiris, but most of them were minding their own business – an announcement had been made, stating that someone had fainted, and please use the toilets at the front of the plane.

"Why do you think he could have been killed?"

The Marshall had appeared from nowhere, sneaky like an evil beaver, and it was now Gus' turn to clutch his heart as if he was about to die.

"I think someone wanted to silence him," said Shawn, frowning.

"Did he... did he speak to you?" the Marshall looked hesitant now.

"You mean from the grave? Not yet, but I'm—"

"Don't give me that psychic bullshit—"

"So you don't believe me either. Funny how you and Lassie look alike sometimes."

"Answer my question," said the Marshall, his voice icy cold.

"Same bully talk, same pathological lack of patience."

Shawn winced as the huge paw of the Marshall gripped his shoulder a bit too tightly.

"It's just... I felt that he was afraid of something," Shawn said, hiding behind the convenient cover of his psychicness. "Of someone, maybe. I think the killer is on the plane. I can sense it." He raised his fluttering fingers to his temple.

"Then there's no way they can escape," said the Marshall, gloomily, before stomping off.

"What was _that_?" murmured Gus, after he made sure the other man was out of hearing range.

"Someone didn't get enough love and attention when they were little, Gus. It's sad—"

"Shawn, will you please focus? There is a dead body behind this curtain and I don't want—" He was cut off mid rant when Shawn pulled him further away from the passengers seats. A woman was looking at them with big round eyes, and Shawn mouthed with a smile: "He was only joking."

"I'm focused, Gus, stop panicking. I think someone murdered that guy, and I'm gonna find who did it."

"And why?"

"Of course." They bumped their fists.

"This is awesome," added Shawn, pensively. "A whole plane of suspects. Totally like _The Crime of the Orient Express_. Except that I have no mustache, and much better hair than that Belgian guy."

Gus said nothing, but nodded his agreement with the part about the hair. He was squinting at everyone from the back of the plane, furtive glances, and wondered if they were going to need magnifying glasses.

"Anyway," Shawn added, sobering suddenly, "I already know the Marshall did it."

OoOoO

"Right before he... died, when I ran into him on my way back from the little boys' room, Sunglass—"

"Stuntgrass."

"Whatever. That small, shabby guy faked stumbling, and—"

"Maybe he really lost his balance," said Gus, "I mean, he turned up dead a few minutes later."

"Gus, will you stop interrupting me? Time is counted."

"Who said anything about time being counted?"

"You see, you keep arguing and it won't lead us anywhere." Shawn ran a hand through his awesome hair and sighed. "I think there's more than meets the eye, anyway. Sunbath _faked_ stumbling, and he gave me this."

That time, Gus didn't bother to correct Shawn's personal version of the dead guy's name – it was no use anyway – and examined the folded paper Shawn had produced from his jeans pocket. Hastily written on it were the words 'Help me'.

"He must have felt someone was onto him," Gus said tentatively.

"The Marshall, you mean."

Gus ignored him and continued, "Stuntgrass was supposed to testify in some kind of audience for a big trial in two days."

"Dude, how would you know that?" Shawn asked. He seemed genuinely confused, but Gus couldn't blame him; the other man had spent the first half hour of their flight eating peanuts while bothering Lassiter, and developing a strong hate at first sight for the Marshall.

"I overheard the Marshall talking to Lassiter earlier," said Gus with a smile.

"I knew there was a reason you had such big ears."

"My ears ain't..." Gus muttered, feeling the incriminated appendages with his fingertips, a frown on his face.

"Okay, let's find Lassiface then."

OoOoO

It was on their way to the back of the plane, where the dead body of the unfortunate Stuntgrass had been cordoned off by an over zealous Lassiter – his first case on a plane, how exciting! – that Shawn and Gus overheard the "something more" that Shawn was (totally psychically) sensing.

The two of them hid behind a hostess cart, awesome hair and big head the only things visible.

Someone was talking on the phone – _How do they get a phone working on a plane in the first place?_ Shawn wondered. Maybe it was a satellite phone, which would explain— _Focus, Shawn_, he berated himself.

Someone was talking, and he didn't sound happy, as muffled as he was.

"Yes, he's dead, but it's way too early. It was supposed to happen in the airport, and... I don't— I don't know." – pause – "No."

Shawn and Gus exchanged a glance.

"No, but I think some nutcase is suspecting me."

"That would be me," Shawn murmured needlessly.

"If everything is in place in Portland, there should be no problem."

There was another pause, longer this time. "I'm not sure a second dead body is advisable right now, but I'll see what I can do."

Then the muffled someone stopped talking, and a few seconds later, a very determined US Marshall passed Shawn and Gus' hiding spot.

Gus had paled, and it made him look slightly green.

"You're not going to get sick, are you?" Shawn worried.

"Did you hear that, Shawn? He's planning on offing you, and probably me and Lassiter as well! Oh my God, I knew I shouldn't have come, and now we're all going to die! It's even worse than Mexico—"

"The first or the second time, in Mexico?" Shawn wasn't really listening. He was thinking about a way to keep the plane safe, a way to prevent that bastard from getting away.

"That's it!" He stood up suddenly, startling Gus, who remained hidden, crouched behind the cart.

"What?" Gus whispered.

"I'm going to have this plane diverted to another airport."

OoOoO

Before Gus could even understand what was happening, Shawn had jumped forward, screaming. A vision; Gus knew that manic demeanor way too well. He followed Shawn, who was flailing between two rows of seats, his hand to his temple, fingers twitching.

"I see, I see fire!" That was an easy one, but no one around said anything, watching him with their mouths open. "I see," Shawn carried on, "wires. Blue, red, yellow. Which one is it?"

Gus had caught up with him, but he was unsure of what to do. Go fetch Lassiter, maybe? Well, the raucous will alert him soon enough.

"Wires! A countdown! Twenty seven, twenty six, twenty fi—"

"Are you saying there is a bomb on the plane?" a small woman asked in a tiny voice. Suddenly, it seemed that everyone stopped breathing, waiting for the answer.

"A bomb! Yes!" Shawn was sweating, leaning against a seat, and he seemed truly distressed; it could fool anyone, Gus thought.

"We're all going to die!" someone randomly screamed, and chaos ensued. The hostesses and the stewards were trying to keep people in their seats, but there was too much noise and confusion_. Well done, Shawn_, thought Gus. _Now what?_

That was the moment Lassiter and the Marshall chose to join the scene, bellowing something Gus didn't quite catch and Shawn ignored, still going on about his so called vision of an explosive device on the plane.

"Alright, that's it, Shawn. Yfou left me no choice." Lassiter's voice was stern, but his eyes betrayed his excitement.

"What? What are you talking about, Lassiface?"

"No choice at all."

The tall detective advanced on Shawn with a feral smile which was, to say the least, a bit disturbing. He was holding out a pair of shiny handcuffs for Shawn to see.

"Why, Lassie, I didn't know you were into that kind of kinky stuff, you should have said— ow!"

Lassiter had turned Shawn around rather roughly, and slapped the cuffs around the smaller man's wrists. They closed with a satisfying click.

"How did you manage to get those things on a plane anyway?" asked Gus, curiosity and disbelief showing in his voice – not an ounce of concern for Shawn's actual predicament, apparently.

"The Marshall gave me his."

"I thought you didn't like him," Shawn said, sounding almost whiny.

"We found a common dislike in your wild theories, it brought us together," said Lassiter with a scowl.

"Go figure." Shawn shrugged as best has he could with his hands behind his back.

Under the scrutiny of the panicking passengers, and the impassible Marshall, Lassiter began escorting Shawn to the back of the plane.

"This is a bad mistake, Lassiface. You're endangering the whole plane and you know it," Shawn sounded indignant, and Gus wasn't sure if that was still part of the act.

"I'm keeping you safe, Spencer. Now shut up or I'll gag you as well," Lassiter said between his teeth.

"Safe from what?"

"From me, adding a second body to this mess – yours." Lassiter pushed Shawn forward, still holding his bound hands; as if he'd try to get away, on a plane of all places.

"Thanks but I'll pass. I've had enough death threats for today."

Shawn let Lassiter push him around until they got in the crew cabin. He let him handcuff his right hand to a seat bolted to the floor; he could try and pick that up later.

"And, Spencer?"

"What, Lassie, you want to gloat about how you are a great cop, and how I'm just a lousy psychic?"

"Well, yes, that, but I also meant to say that I do think there's something underneath all this, I just need you to stay put and stop screaming everywhere like a gutted pig. The last thing I need is a riot from the passengers, on top of everything."

"No hard feelings, I get it," said Shawn with a charming smile. He knew he was right, and the killer wasn't getting away with it. He'll just have to wait for his time. "And don't forget there could be snakes. _That _would be messy."


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Death Is in the Air(port)

Author: nao_asakura, aka SuperMiss

OoOoO

Half an hour later (and half way to the nearest airport where the plane had be diverted for safety measures), Gus and Shawn were sitting in the crew cabin, and Shawn was eating with one free hand, the other still cuffed to the seat.

"Why, this is so unfair... Eating spaghetti with a spoon should be considered a crime against culinary taste," he moaned.

"You're nothing but classy, Shawn. I've seen you eat unnamed things you'd found on the floor. I mean, you _did_ try to pick up your handcuffs with the plastic fork they gave you..."

"At least tell me what's going on back there. I can't really do my thing when I'm..." He jolted his cuffs and the metal scrapped against the chair.

"Well, Lassiter has things under control. I think.

"You think?"

"He's barking orders and terrorizing half the plane crew."

"Good old Lassie," said Shawn fondly. Then he sobered: "And that Marshall? Did he phone his friends down there again?"

"I..." Gus hesitated. "I don't really feel like following him too closely. It, it might be unsafe, and I—"

"Anyway, you're sure the plane is going to be diverted?"

"We should land in about..." – Gus raised his watch to eye level and studied it for one moment – "... ten minutes or so."

"Good. Now, if you could please find me a sharp tool or—"

But Gus wouldn't find any sharp tool – they were on a plane, not in a hardware store, Gus told him.

OoOoO

Salem airport was busy as hell_ – was hell a busy place? Hell, he didn't know – _but not very much more than usual._ Well, it wasn't as if a frigging standoff was happening right now – Wait! Oh yes, there was._ Shawn's thoughts were jumping in his head like little flailing bubbles – _What? Bubbles don't have arms so there couldn't be any flailing involved, and— _He closed his eyes and tried to mentally shut himself up. Didn't really work, though.

Stupid, he had been stupid. Or he had run out of luck, he couldn't tell. The Marshall had managed to persuade Lassiface to keep him cuffed until the plane had landed. Or maybe Lassie had just forgotten him, or he was being mean, in his petty way. Anyway, the Marshall had managed to grab him in the corridor between the plane and the airport, shoving his gun in Shawn's face, twisting his bound arms with unnecessary force.

Gus had yelped and covered. Shawn had yelped and followed because he didn't want to see his brain splattered on the grey walls of the corridor, or his arms dislocated and popped out of his shoulders. The other passengers screamed and basically scattered away, while Lassiter was nowhere to be seen.

And there he was, trying to keep his balance despite the Marshall's strong grip on his arms, standing in front of the black muzzles of security guards' guns. The firearms weren't exactly trained at _him,_ but, in Shawn's opinion, it didn't change the general idea. The faux Marshall was expecting his friends to be waiting for him, not to set foot in another airport. He had been spooked and Shawn would have kicked himself if he had been free.

OoOoO

"I'm not going back to prison. If I'm going down, you're coming with me," the Marshall snarled very close to Shawn's ear.

"I'll pass," Shawn tried to say, but the bulky man switched to a stranglehold and Shawn's suddenly didn't have a lot of room left to speak, let alone breathe.

"How did you find out? I know you're not really psychic," he added, as if he was reading Shawn's mind himself.

"The tattoo," the smaller man managed to croak. "A real Marshall wouldn't have graduated from a Mexican jail."

"How do you—" The Marshall unconsciously looked at his arm, where the ink was showing just a little on his tan skin, under his rolled-up sleeve.

"I know where that comes from," Shawn began, trying to look smug despite the current situation, "because I saw it before" – _on a computer screen, in a police report, months ago_, he thought – "in a vision."

"You'd better have looked away, smartass."

Shawn would have liked to argue that one couldn't really look away from a vision, that it didn't work that way, at least not with _his_ visions, but he didn't manage to speak up. It was probably for the best, however.

Lassie was there, Shawn suddenly noted through his mumbled thought. He was really lacking air, now that he had infuriated his hostage taker for good – _Was he really a hostage? That was kinda cool. Not._ Gus was there too, and a dozen of airport cops. Weapon drawn.

Then he saw it, from the very corner of his eye. The security of the Marshall's gun was still on. Was it because the he didn't intend on killing him, or just plain stupidity on his part, Shawn couldn't tell, and he really couldn't care less.

He went boneless.

The Marshall strained to keep him upright with only one hand, the gun never wavering. The confusion wasn't enough for Shawn to try and take a run, and anyway he was feeling light headed for good now that the Marshall's arm was cutting off his airway. But he opened his eyes just one second and blinked at Lassiter

Next thing he knew, a gunshot was ringing and Shawn was falling backward, the Marshall's grip still on his neck. The faux Marshall was twisting, trying to retrieve the gun he'd dropped when Lassiter's bullet hit his shoulder, then trying to stem the blood flow because there was a _hole_ in his shoulder.

Feet running towards them. Shawn was coughing and coughing, trying to free himself, but he couldn't, not with his arms still bound in his back, and twisted beneath him.

Lassie pried him away from the Marshall while the airport cops surrounded the wounded man, weapons strained at his weakly struggling form on the floor.

"You" – cough – "believe me now?" Shawn asked Lassiter.

"I'm sorry, Spencer."

"Wait, what?"

"Don't make me say it again," Lassiter growled, holding out the key to the handcuffs. Then he helped him up to his feet.

OoOoO

Sitting in the office of the head of security of the airport, Lassiter really wished Spencer wasn't a "key witness", as their had put it. Now he was stuck in the same room while the psychic was recalling his version of the events, much to his advantage, with occasional interventions from Guster. He still felt a little bad Spencer had been hurt on his watch – there were purplish marks on his neck and a bruise was beginning to form on his temple – but he was resolute not to let it show.

"And that's when I saw the tattoo that I understood the whole plot," Spencer was saying, raising his hands emphatically. _Shit, even his wrists were bruised_, Lassiter thought, his jaw set. "Sun-something..."

"Stuntgrass," Gus helpfully provided.

"... was supposed to appear to have died from natural causes, while it was only a masquerade to silence him."

"Too bad they achieved their goal," Lassiter mumbled.

"Actually," said Spencer with a smile, "there may still be a way to get to them. You see," – he adopted his psychic stance and closed his eyes – "the Marshall was not alone on this one."

"I'm pretty sure he won't talk, Spencer, what are you getting at?"

"Shush, Lassiface, I'm having a vision." He frowned, as if concentrating really hard. "It rings," he whispered. "Small, black... hmm, telephone-shaped thingy."

Their resident psychic must really be exhausted, because that wasn't even remotely good, Lassiter thought. But it still sounded interesting.

"You mean he talked to someone? When, how?"

"On the plane!" Guster exclaimed. "The Marshall had a satellite phone. It still must be there," he added.

Spencer looked thankful and sat down, waiting for the head of security to connect the dots.

"I'll have the plane fully searched," the man said, picking up the phone to brief his crew.

"Trace the calls, you'll have your lead," Spencer said. He and Gus bumped their fists.

"Good job, Spencer," Lassiter breathed, surprising himself.

"I didn't quite hear that!" Oh, he could have strangled the man himself.


End file.
